


You're a natural disaster

by alexanger



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 09:01:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7634104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexanger/pseuds/alexanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Thomas Jefferson is jealous of bacon and sex is a conversation starter.</p>
<p>[<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4KmhS_sB7aI">Title</a>]</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're a natural disaster

The bar is noisy and crowded and Jefferson can feel all his muscles protesting as he contorts his body to avoid touching anything.

“Relax,” Hamilton tells him, in that annoying nasal drone Jefferson loathes so much.

“Fuck you,” he snaps. “This suit cost more than your car and I’m not going to have it sullied by spilt pedestrian beer.”

“Why did you come, then? You could have just gone home if you’re so horrified about having to have any kind of contact with _normal_ people.”

“Because,” Jefferson says slowly, as one might speak to a particularly stubborn animal, “you stole my smoothie out of the fridge, and you promised you’d pay me back, and I’m not leaving until I’m compensated for my property.”

“I’m gonna have to ask why you think I’m buying you alcohol to replace a smoothie. Those cost, what, like, five bucks, tops?”

“Try fifteen,” Jefferson corrects.

“Who the _fuck_ spends that kind of money on a smoothie? Was it made of tiger milk and platinum-plated berries or something?” Hamilton asks incredulously.

“I can’t help you if you’re so narrow-minded that you refuse to understand the benefits of quality beverages over that processed garbage you practically mainline -”

“Monster is not garbage, it’s ambrosia,” Hamilton says.

“Whatever,” Jefferson tells him. “Just buy me a glass of wine. The sooner you do that, the sooner I can leave.” He draws himself up to his full height and is far too pleased to see that he towers over Hamilton, who is a tiny ball of rage and antagonism.

Hamilton approaches the bar and flags down the bartender. Just as he’s about to order, a man beside him says, “hey, Alex,” Hamilton swivels to say hi, and the bartender turns away to take another order.

“Oh my God!” Jefferson bursts. “Come on, are you fucking _serious?”_

The man looks at him and Jefferson takes in the smooth line of his jaw, the fine arc of his eyebrows, the confidence in his clear brown eyes, and has an absurd impulse to add, _would you rather be fucking me?_

“So this is Thomas Jefferson,” Hamilton says flatly. “I’m kind of stuck with him right now, and I apologize in advance for literally every aspect of his personality. Jefferson, this is Aaron Burr, and you’re not allowed to say anything rude to him, or I’ll shit on your keyboard.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Jefferson purrs, taking Burr’s hand and shaking it with what _may_ be just _slightly_ too much enthusiasm.

“Likewise,” Burr says, but his smooth voice is devoid of emotion and Jefferson can’t read the expression on his face.

“So, how do you know Hamilton?” Jefferson asks, sidling closer. Hamilton creeps closer to the bar and flags down the bartender again.

“We went to college together,” Burr tells him. “I was a year into my law degree and Alex was just starting. Took an elective together and he was absolutely infuriating.”

“I’m so glad you think so too,” Jefferson starts.

Burr cuts him off. “Then I got to know him, and I haven’t gotten rid of him since. Not that I’d want to at this point. Yourself?”

“He works for me. Same office, vastly different jobs, thank goodness. Not a lot of overlap. So -”

Jefferson is interrupted by Hamilton shoving a glass of wine into his hand. “There you go, paid back for your smoothie, bye now.”

“It was nice to meet you, Thomas,” Burr says, with the ghost of a smile playing around his lips.

“I bet it was,” Jefferson says with a wink, and the last thing Burr does before he and Hamilton walk away is laugh.

 

The work week is always long, but Jefferson never had any idea exactly how long until he made the mistake of hiring Hamilton. Every day, there’s a new bizarre problem that apparently only Jefferson can solve, and each one is a complete waste of time that makes him hate Hamilton a little bit more.

On Monday, it’s a squabble over accounting. “There’s a huge discrepancy between what you’re billing for and what you’re actually producing,” Hamilton tells him. “You can’t legally bill for alcohol if you’re not taking a client out for work purposes.”

“I was speaking with a client, over dinner, for work purposes,” Jefferson corrects.

“Was the client present at the time?”

“Yes -”

“Physically?”

Jefferson grits his teeth. “Human beings are always physically present somewhere.”

“You were Skyping, weren’t you?” Hamilton asks.

“Yes, but -”

“So we’re not compensating the alcohol, because if we get audited, you’ll kill me,” Hamilton says.

Jefferson spends the rest of the afternoon doodling tiny Hamiltons on his scratch pad and inflicting various scribbled misfortunes on them in retaliation.

On Tuesday, a cork somehow winds up in the sink in the office kitchen. Jefferson insists he knows nothing about it, until Hamilton produces said cork, which has a tiny “TJ” stamped on one end.

“You do this to all your wine bottles,” he says. “Because the last time anyone so much as _looked_ at one of them, you threw a fit and I told you to label them -”

“I’ve been framed,” Jefferson says.

“Show me one other person in the office who drinks wine on company time.”

“This is clearly profiling.”

“Dude,” Hamilton says, “why did you hire me to do your books if you were just going to be an asshole about everything all the time?”

“Because you’re marginally better than using a computer program. Remind me why I don’t fire you right now.”

“Because I created your accounting system and it’ll fall apart without me?” Hamilton suggests.

“Just get back to work,” Jefferson tells him. “And figure out who’s throwing corks down the drain. I don’t want to pay to fix them anymore.”

(After everyone goes home that night, he puts a grate across the opening of the drain and rubs the stamped TJ off of all his wine bottles.)

Wednesday sees Hamilton sitting in Jefferson’s office and complaining about the petty cash box and the misuse thereof. “You know your secretary is using petty cash to buy lunch?” he says, irritation clear in his voice. “And then I need to enter that into our accounts, and find a way to justify her stealing company money, and I’m really tired of covering up embezzling.”

“It isn’t embezzling,” Jefferson says.

“I have a _law degree,_ Jefferson, trust me. It doesn’t matter if it’s ten bucks or ten thousand, it’s pretty illegal. Considering the kind of salaries you offer, she probably has enough money to spring for her own lunch.”

“Start stocking deli sandwiches in the fridge and factor that into accounts,” Jefferson says.

“Isn’t that your assistant’s job?”

“Did I hire you to talk back to me or to get work done?”

“At this point, sir,” Hamilton says, “it seems like you hired me so you have someone to yell at when you feel like a grumpy pumpkin.”

“Get out of my office,” Jefferson tells him.

Thursday is the worst, though, because on Thursday, Burr shows up and spends the afternoon in Hamilton’s office instead of in Jefferson’s, and that’s just distinctly _unfair._

At around 4, Jefferson calls Hamilton to his office. “What are you doing in there?” he says by way of greeting as Hamilton walks in.

“I’m doing accounts payable and he’s playing games on his phone while I talk.”

“See, if you were anyone else, I’d doubt your ability to talk and work at the same time,” Jefferson says. “But considering you seem to have a pathological need to be speaking at all times, I kind of believe you. Are you taking care of the next run of paycheques?”

“Payday is next Friday and I put them through for printing on Wednesday, so no. I calculate final numbers on Friday afternoon.”

“So you’re busy tomorrow afternoon. Is Burr?” Jefferson asks.

Hamilton laughs in his face. “That wasn’t even a little bit subtle, sir.”

“Answer the question.”

“Yes,” Hamilton says. “With me.”

“Bye, Hamilton,” Jefferson says.

“Goodbye, sir,” Hamilton says, leaving the office.

The next afternoon, Burr picks Hamilton up from the office after work. As they leave, Hamilton slings an arm around Burr’s shoulders - proof that at least one person on earth is shorter than Hamilton, amazingly enough - and Jefferson, from where he stands at the front desk, feels his expression fix itself firmly in a glower.

“Smile, sir, it’s the weekend,” Hamilton says as he leaves. “See you Monday!”

“Fuck you,” Jefferson mutters as the office door closes.

 

On Saturday Jefferson texts Hamilton, asking if Burr is busy that night, and receives no reply. He writes several more texts, angrily drinks his way through two bottles of wine, sends Hamilton a final “fuck you,” and goes to bed in a temper.

 

Sunday is spent paying for that when Hamilton texts back:

**Bacon:**  
I was gonna give you his number but now I’m not.

 

Monday rolls around and Jefferson treats himself to the most expensive French latte he can find on the way to the office. He deserves it, he tells himself, after his very difficult weekend. When he walks in, Hamilton is lounging on the sofa in his office, attempting to throw tiny balls of crumpled paper into the decorative vase on his desk.

“How long have you been doing that?”

“So far I’ve gotten seventeen in, thanks for asking,” Hamilton says, tossing another ball. It hits the back of the rim and bounces in. “Make that eighteen.”

“So do you want something, or are you just here to bother me?”

“Aaron is coming by today and I told him you’d like to talk to him. Didn’t tell him about what. Don’t be weird at him, okay? Be cool,” Hamilton says.

“And you’re okay with him being in here, alone with me, because -?”

“Uh,” Hamilton says, “is there a reason, beyond you being an unimaginable creep, that I wouldn’t be okay with that?”

“Are you two, you know - are you in an open relationship, or -” Jefferson furrows his brow and grimaces. “Because if he’s dating _you_ that kind of ruins everything.”

Hamilton laughs. “I’m not dating him, man, I’m married, do you ever listen to anything I say ever?”

“No,” Jefferson says, as though the answer is obvious.

“Anyway, don’t be supremely weird, don’t say anything I wouldn’t say.”

“That really doesn’t restrict me much,” Jefferson tells him.

“Okay, well, don’t be skeevy.”

“That’s doable, I’m never ‘skeevy’.”

“Sure you aren’t. He’ll be here in an hour or so but I’m talking to him first because I think he deserves some kind of warning -”

“Thanks, you’ve been helpful, get out of my office now,” Jefferson says.

At first, it’s hard to get anything done. The thought of Burr showing up in the office is incredibly distracting - there isn’t much he knows about the man, but the curve of his jaw, the way the corners of his lips curl, the smooth line of his shoulders in his jacket, they’re all supremely endearing - but before long he finds comments Hamilton has been making in the company docs and sets about deleting the more inflammatory ones, and then he starts drafting the perfect comeback to one of the more egregious personal insults left on his timesheet, and the hour flies by.

He’s just finished typing out his comeback (it ends with “and you dress like you’ve just walked out of the dumpster behind the H&M, you uncivilized piggy bastard”) when Burr says from the doorway, “am I allowed to come in, or should I keep standing here until you notice me?”

Jefferson starts. “How long have you been there?”

“Around the time you muttered ‘H&M sells shitty suits’ and started laughing to yourself.”

“So probably a while?”

“Yes,” Burr tells him. The corners of his mouth are curved slightly upward.

“Come on in,” Jefferson says. Burr crosses to the sofa, every motion unbelievably smooth, and sits with absurd grace, and Jefferson can’t help but stare.

“You wanted to talk to me?” Burr’s voice is velvety and fluid and Jefferson finds himself a little lost for words now that Burr is actually in his office. Planning ahead is not his forte.

“Yes,” he says. He gathers his thoughts. “Yes. Um. Yes. Would you,” he says, fumbling for the words, “be interested. Would you be interested in having sex with me?”

“Excuse me?”

“Would you be interested in having sex with me,” Jefferson repeats.

“Does that usually work?” Burr asks.

“Yes,” Jefferson says. “Except for when it doesn’t, but usually yes.”

“I see,” Burr says. “No, I would not like to have sex with you.”

Jefferson nods and raises his eyebrows. “Alright. Good talk,” he says. Before he can continue, Burr cuts him off.

“But you can take me out for dinner.”

For the second time Jefferson feels all the words drain out of him and he scrambles for something to say. “Neat,” he manages, and immediately makes a face at his own response.

“If,” Burr says, “you promise not to text Alex telling him his face looks like it came out of a garbage bag from the bottom layer of a landfill.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you did that on Saturday,” Burr informs him.

“Well if I’ve already done it, I’m not going to do it again,” Jefferson says. “That would just be an affront to creativity.”

“Are you usually that creative?” Burr asks.

“Generally, yes. I’d say I’m pretty clever,” Jefferson says.

“Wow, I really got shorted with you asking me out, then.”

“Ouch. Alright, give me a minute and I’ll do it properly -”

Burr stands, takes the scratch pad from Jefferson’s desk, and scribbles his number on it. “You can text me a better line. Nice drawings,” he adds. “Is that Hamilton trapped inside a bottle of wine?”

“Yes, and you should pay attention to the shading on his jacket.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s the one you should be asking out,” Burr says.

Jefferson chokes on the breath he’s taking. As he splutters, Burr leaves the office. He pauses at the door and adds, “you’re taking me out Friday evening and I expect you to talk about more than just Hamilton while we’re having dinner.”

“You got it,” Jefferson manages.

Burr gives him the barest hint of a smile and leaves, closing the door behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to [tumblr user somethingaboutpopculture](http://somethingaboutpopculture.tumblr.com/) for this prompt:  
>  _Jefferson works w hamilton and burr and hamilton are old college friends, so he comes to their office to see hamilton and they meet, but jefferson thinks burr's dating hamilton, cue miscommunication &pining_  
> it was way too much fun.
> 
> thanks to [bean](http://beansterpie.tumblr.com) for the summary.
> 
> comments and kudos are my gourmet smoothie. chat to me or send me a prompt at [alexangery.tumblr.com](http://alexangery.tumblr.com)


End file.
